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"Would you like to come in and rest before you go?" Sunday gestured open-palmed toward the expansive room behind him, illuminated by the scale-model Golden Hour in the center.
The escort job was already completed — there was no reason for Sunday not to just dismiss the Bloodhound immediately. Gallagher quirked an eyebrow, expression otherwise unchanging. "It's a dream, my legs aren't actually tired from all those damn stairs you've got in this place."
"Nevermind then," Sunday deadpanned, shutting the door.
"Wait, wait, okay, I'll come in," Gallagher laughed. He jammed a shoe in between the door and its frame before it could close. "Since you want me to so badly."
Sunday padded over to the orange sofa with a glass of water in hand, slowly taking a seat beside the other man. Just by nature of it being closest to the stairs, they happened to end up on the sofa underneath the Bloodhound crest. Its mural — the proud, stately Hound — cast a warm yellow light over them.
He glanced upward uneasily. He couldn't detect any movement; there were no sounds of flapping wings or scrabbling talons. There wasn't any particular reason to monitor this room now, since there weren't any guests or employees here at this time, but still — the high ceilings hid countless discreet perching spots. He didn't know why he was even worried, since he wasn't doing anything wrong. It wasn't like he couldn't have guests in his own home. As long as Sunday met his expectations as the Oak Family head and Bronze Melodia, his Master was quite permissive with how he spent his (albeit scant) free time.
After discreetly scanning the room anyways, he held the glass out to Gallagher in offering. The Bloodhound took it, fixing him with a searching look.
"Thanks. Why're you being so nice to me?"
"I'm just being polite."
"Huh." Gallagher, mercifully, didn't press further. He sipped the water quietly, staring off in the direction of the model city.
Sunday fidgeted, tapping his fingers against his thigh. This was way out of his comfort zone. He wasn't even sure what had possessed him to do this. He just felt like if he didn't have a conversation with someone — a real conversation, not an interview or a meeting or a press release — he would lose his mind. And Gallagher had never been afraid to talk to him like he was a person, for better or for worse.
Something had always seemed off about Gallagher. Like how he couldn't recall when the man was newly hired — it just seemed like he'd always been there, somehow, and that Sunday had always known him. It disquieted him.
He supposed it wasn't impossible that Gallagher had been with the Family since before Sunday had come to Penacony, but the Bloodhounds had been tasked with his protection even on his first foray into the Dreamscape as a child, over 20 years ago now. He didn't specifically remember meeting Gallagher back then, but a lot of his memories of that time were hazy with grief and fear, and a random security officer would've been a pretty low priority, memory-wise.
He guessed Gallagher did look old enough to have been working for that long, if he was around 40 — although appearances in the Dreamscape were too unreliable to accurately base any judgement on. He had no idea how old Gallagher looked in reality — or what he looked like at all, for that matter. To his knowledge, he'd never even seen the man in person.
That was also strange; how had he never once run into such an important member of his own staff? Even if Gallagher preferred to keep to himself outside the Dream — fair enough — never one encounter, for over 20 years? But, on the other hand, if Gallagher had been on the Family's payroll for that long, surely someone in bookkeeping would've noticed that something was amiss by now.
He always ended up thinking in frustrating circles like this when it came to Gallagher. But, troubling thoughts aside, the man was warm and uninhibited unlike anyone else in Sunday's circles. An anomaly that captured his attention.
No one else in the Bloodhound security detail ever dared to lean over to mutter a disdainful comment into Sunday's ear after a meeting with a particularly obnoxious Family member, goading him to crack a little smile despite himself — or to sneak him extra petit fours from the buffet table.
And so Sunday found himself thinking about Gallagher far more often than he could afford, with the culmination of his life's work looming closer and closer. Sunday was, to his great chagrin, still a human being with social needs. He ached for any semblance of companionship, no matter how far down he tried to bury that part of himself. And since the Bloodhound's legs must have been so tired after walking him back here, what choice did he have but to invite him inside? Sunday wasn't cruel, after all.
He felt the side of his face burn as Gallagher eyed him again. "You gonna stay in here and work more? Don't you wanna wake up and stretch, you know—" Gallagher gestured vaguely. "Out there?"
"There's still work to be done. The Dreampool and its attendants will monitor my body without issue."
Gallagher made a disapproving noise, but said nothing. They briefly lapsed into uncomfortable silence before Gallagher spoke again.
"We had a real character show up at the bar recently." Sunday looked up from his lap. He did recall Gallagher mentioning that he occasionally tended a bar during his off-hours. He always just called it 'the bar' without disclosing any specifics. Oddly enough, his caginess on the subject didn't really bother Sunday — there were innumerable bars in Golden Hour alone, ranging from exclusive luxury lounges to cheap holes-in-the-wall, some with clientele more niche than others. Maybe Gallagher just didn't want his day-job colleagues to know where he spent his free time. Sunday wasn't much of a bar person, anyways.
The Bloodhound continued: "Said she wanted crunchy ice. No drink, just a glass of crunchy ice." Gallagher chuckled. "She told me the texture had to be perfect, or she'd send it back."
Sunday breathed out a small laugh through his nose. Something about the mundanity of Gallagher's bartending stories always felt very grounding. To set aside the weight of his heavy ambitions for a moment and just listen to anecdotes about peoples' drink orders — it was nice.
"And then, after that, a guy came in..." Gallagher continued on, describing the wacky escapades of the bar patrons in that easy, gravelly tone of his. Sunday silently thanked him for throwing him a bone and dispelling the awkward silence. He allowed himself to just passively listen as the other man went on, finding himself chuckling again as he was drawn in by Gallagher's storytelling.
After meandering aimlessly from subject to subject for a while, Gallagher put on a big show of yawning, reaching up to stretch, and egregiously resting an arm around Sunday's shoulders. An intentionally over-the-top move to test the waters, since the mood had become so strangely comfortable during their conversation — almost intimate. It would've been very easy for Sunday to roll his eyes and push him away, call him a dog, scold him for his overly-familiar behavior. But he didn't. He just sat — processing the feeling of a warm hand settling on his left shoulder. Gallagher gave him a curious look, clearly wondering about the complete lack of reaction.
"Uh, this okay?"
"Mm," Sunday hummed, quickly realizing he should probably give a better-articulated answer than that. "It's fine."
He felt Gallagher's thumb trace a tentative little circle on his shoulder, which did the trick. Sunday exhaled and finally allowed himself to just relax into the touch. Even in the dream, it felt so, so good to be touched — so good it made his chest ache. Like his mind and body had been truly starving for this longer than he realized. He slowly, slowly rested his head against the other man's broad chest, surprising the Bloodhound to the point that he momentarily tensed before resuming his circular ministrations on Sunday's shoulder.
Sunday allowed his eyes to close. They sat like that for a few minutes before Gallagher spoke again. "You seem tired."
"I am tired," Sunday found himself admitting, instantly regretting it. "But it is important work. I'm honored to bear the responsibility."
Gallagher snorted, unimpressed by his immediate backtracking. "It's okay to be frustrated with it, you know."
It wasn't, though. Sunday knew that. Because the moment he allowed his resolve to waver, he wasn't sure he'd be able to build it back up. He couldn't allow himself to be frustrated, because that could open the floodgates to him feeling other, equally dangerous emotions — like scared or resentful or lonely.
Sunday curled himself closer to Gallagher, abandoning any remaining semblance of propriety in favor of maximizing the physical contact he so desperately wanted. He was glad he'd thought to dismiss his halo before going to get the water earlier, he thought idly. It would've been cumbersome otherwise. That train of thought reminded him of what specifically he'd been hoping for when he removed it, which made his face feel a little hot.
"And if I am frustrated with it? Would you help?" Sunday asked carefully. Trying his best to feign nonchalance.
Gallagher scratched at his own chin with his free hand thoughtfully. "Help with what? I'm garbage with paperwork."
"You could help me," Sunday paused, momentarily losing his nerve with the insane thing he was asking. "Blow off some steam. Physically."
Gallagher stared at him. "You—" Opened his mouth and immediately closed it again. "Sunday, are—" Blinked a few times. "Are you propositioning me?"
Sunday winced at the directness of the question. Well, he'd already come this far. He already had his cheek pillowed against the taut fabric covering Gallagher's warm, firm pec — could feel the Bloodhound's pulse kick up through it. He cleared his throat. "Yes, I am propositioning you."
"Fuck," Gallagher said eloquently, one side of his mouth curling up into an incredulous smirk. "Birdie, I didn't know you had it in you. Right now?"
"Well, you're already here." Emboldened, Sunday leaned up to press his nose against the other man's stubbly neck, breathing in deeply — besotted with the smell and warmth of another person after going so long without. It almost made him dizzy. Gallagher smelled like cigarettes and a leathery cologne of some sort — neither of which were scents Sunday found particularly pleasant, under normal circumstances, but didn't mind on the Bloodhound for some reason.
He turned and pulled a leg up to straddle Gallagher's lap, facing towards him and wrapping his arms around the Hound's neck. When even was the last opportunity he'd found for this?
Nothing since college, and even then instances had been few and far between.
After all, he'd always been the illustrious, elegant Mr. Sunday. The Oak family heir who had already taken over the position of Bronze Melodia on top of his studies. The ever-smiling, ever-charming, ever immaculate Mr. Sunday, who would shake his professors' hands firmly in his own — clad in pristine white gloves, of course — on the first day of class, because that was the polite thing to do.
That was his role, always — the warm-cold smile, paradoxically balancing an air of authority with disarming deference; the listening ear, whose shoulder anyone could cry on; the listening ear, who kept every anecdote confessed to him neatly tucked away in the extensive archive of his memory. Layers upon layers of impeccably-crafted performance, down to the most detailed minutiae of facial expression and body language, perfected and polished to the point that nobody — including Sunday, frankly — could recall what was underneath.
So, not the easiest lay.
But the fact remained that Sunday was just a man, and sometimes he wanted to get fucked. So there had been a few disparate occasions in his college years where a particularly brave soul had approached him after class or in the dorms' common area to ask him out (and inevitably the color had drained from their face when he agreed, since they clearly hadn't expected to make it that far). Nothing ever persisted in the long-term, though, because that uneasiness in his partners never really seemed to subside.
They never seemed to be able to clear the mental hurdle that yes, this was Sunday — the Sunday Oak — having a drink with them, or kissing them, or joining them in bed. The power imbalance always felt insurmountable, always looming over them no matter how Sunday acted. Maybe that was the problem — that on some level, he was still acting, and they could tell.
And so, he figured, if he was going to act — it might as well make the other party more comfortable. That was how he'd originally hatched the idea to suggest using the Harmony to alter his appearance during sex. His partner (if they agreed, of course, but they always did — who would turn down such an offer?) could temporarily forget they were sleeping with the indomitable Sunday Oak, and Sunday could get laid. A win-win, by his calculations.
Now, he thought, would probably be the time to bring that up.
"If you're uncomfortable with the fact that it's me," he murmured against Gallagher's neck, his mouth only millimeters from the man's ear. "I can use the Harmony to alter your perception of me, to appear as anyone you'd like. I can make it very realistic."
"Huh?" Sunday could practically hear Gallagher furrowing his eyebrows. "Sunday, that's crazy. What the fuck?"
The disdain, something like pity in his voice — it bothered Sunday. Irritated him, even. He pulled away. "Why is it crazy?"
"The hell's the point of sleeping with someone you don't even find attractive enough to look at?" Gallagher asked, exasperated.
Sunday scoffed. "It's not about finding me attractive. Everyone has fantasies, which I'm willing to use my abilities to accommodate within reasonable limits. Also," he added. "I'm told I can be intimidating, and this helps.”
Gallagher barked out a laugh. "Intimidating? Come on. You're scared. You're hiding behind your Harmony magic tricks so you don't have to show a little vulnerability. Mortifying ordeal of being known and all that. I get it."
Sunday was almost too thunderstruck to be offended by the sheer gall of it. He'd deny it, of course, but he'd be lying if he said the words didn't hook uncomfortably into his mind like a burr.
"Do not presume to understand me or make wild assumptions about my mental state," he spat irritably. "You're being awfully rude for someone trying to get into my pants."
"Aww, you're right," Gallagher threw his hands up melodramatically. "Looks like we'd better just call this whole thing off, huh? Guess I'd better leave." He sighed woefully, grabbing Sunday's waist to lift the Halovian up off his lap (very easily, Sunday noted, which sent a jolt of both irritation and arousal through him).
"You are incorrigible," Sunday huffed. "Don't leave. I won't tune you, if that's really what you want."
"Good." Gallagher allowed him to settle back onto his lap. Sunday wasted no time in bringing his hands up to Gallagher's face, drawing his thumbs over the rough skin of his cheeks. Just savoring the tactile experience of touching another person.
Gallagher was, unfortunately, devastatingly handsome — even with the complete lack of regard for decorum in his personal appearance. Maybe even because of it, to some degree — maybe some small part of Sunday was a little excited by the taboo of it. How juvenile, he lamented, for the Bronze Melodia himself to be charmed by the "bad-boy" schtick. How stupid.
He ran his thumbs over the slight crows' feet at the corners of Gallagher's eyes, and the dark circles underneath them. Beautiful, vividly crimson irises studied him carefully as he did. The Bloodhound's eyes were so very warm, like everything else about him. Disarmingly so.
"Aw, I'm gonna get shy if you keep staring at me like that," Gallagher quipped, not looking like he felt the least bit shy at all. Sunday rolled his eyes.
"Quiet, hound. I'm going to kiss you," Sunday announced, which got a chuckle out of Gallagher. The Hound in question just grinned up at him, raising his eyebrows and lifting his chin with a well, go on then type of expression.
Sunday pressed his lips to the other man's softly, a little hesitant at first. Chaste pecks that lingered more and more as he built up his confidence. It really had been a while since he'd done this, and he was never very good at it to begin with.
Gallagher was receptive — angling his head, moving his rough, warm lips against Sunday's — but it made the Halovian a little uneasy how passive the other man was being. Normally, by this point, the other person would have fully taken the lead — it wouldn't be Sunday here anymore, but the fantasy of someone else. Maybe Gallagher was right about him hiding behind the Harmony. He felt deeply self-conscious — uncomfortably naked despite being fully clothed.
Maybe he'd just investigate a little, just to feel out what Gallagher was thinking. Perhaps make a few subtle tweaks to Gallagher's perception of his body, if there was something the other man didn't like. What would be the harm, if it made the experience more pleasurable for his partner?
The moment he tried, he felt like he'd flown full-speed into clear glass — a shocking, nauseating lurch as he was taken completely by surprise at the barrier preventing his entry. Sunday tried not to let the shock show on his face — after all, it wasn't like he could ask How did you just block my covert psychic probe? without admitting that he had, in fact, attempted a covert psychic probe.
Gallagher's unfazed voice snapped him out of his momentary haze. "That doesn't work on me, you know."
"Wh— Huh?"
"That Harmony thing you're trying to do — it doesn't work on me."
"Why not?" Sunday's eyebrows furrowed, too surprised to even deny his intentions.
"Dunno."
Sunday just stared down at him, at a loss for words. Gallagher tapped a pointer finger against his own forehead. "Maybe this big ol' thick skull of mine's blocking out all your Xipe beams."
Yet another red flag to add to the collection — Gallagher apparently couldn't be tuned. One string, slightly off-key, souring the harmony of the entire orchestra. Sunday should put an end to this immediately. Should have him formally investigated — finally listen to his gut about all of Gallagher's abnormalities.
But Gallagher was still just looking up at him with his big stupid handsome face and his big stupid kind eyes, and it would be much easier to just lean down and kiss him again, so Sunday did that instead. Thinking with his pussy for once in his goddamn perfectly-regimented utilitarian life.
(It always surprised him when thoughts like that bubbled up — as if there were some other, far less inhibited character observing his life from the peanut gallery of his subconscious mind. He typically chose to ignore it as best he could, which was his strategy with the other myriad less-than-stellar aspects of his mental health as well.)
Lacking the willpower to dwell any further on this troubling development when there were more pressing matters at hand, Sunday shrugged off his white suit jacket. For once, he didn't feel like taking the time to fold it, but he also couldn't bring himself to just toss it aside — so he compromised by gingerly draping it over the back of the sofa.
They continued like that for a while longer, just making out like teenagers. At some point one of them had licked into the other's mouth — Sunday couldn't recall who started that. He felt pleasantly hazy, heat simmering low in his core so nicely that he didn't even mind how flagrantly their sloppy noises echoed in the large room.
Eventually Gallagher broke the kiss to look up at Sunday. The Bloodhound was little out of breath, pupils fully blown out — almost to the point of completely obscuring the glinting red of his irises. He grinned crookedly, a hint of a sharp canine peeking through. "Turn around for me?"
Sunday obliged, even though he was slightly disappointed to lose access to Gallagher's face. The desire to follow instructions won. Something about relinquishing control at times like this — just turning his brain off and obediently doing as he was told — always went directly between his legs.
Gallagher let him settle into a comfortable position before reaching to pet over his chest and belly through his shirt — which Sunday was quickly beginning to find he wanted off as soon as possible. This wasn't nearly enough; he wanted skin on skin. He sat up, brushing away Gallagher's hands so he could fumble the buttons undone and shrug it off, placing it somewhat haphazardly (by his own standards, at least) next to them.
"Yours too," Sunday mumbled over his shoulder, a little shyly. "I want to feel your skin on me."
Gallagher huffed out a laugh. "Okay." He shifted around behind him to unbutton and tug off his own waistcoat and undershirt. He undid his tie, pulling it off and tossing it in some random direction.
Sunday leaned his now-bare back against Gallagher's now-bare front — much better. The somewhat scratchy feeling of coarse chest hair against his back kicked up his heart rate a few notches. The Bloodhound, now free to resume his earlier ministrations, roamed his hands over Sunday's pecs again.
Sunday's chest had always been flat; Halovian secondary sex characteristics presented differently from those of humans, so having a vagina didn't necessarily mean having breasts as well. By human standards, many Halovians would be considered intersex.
That being said — one would not have guessed Sunday lacked any breasts, given the enthusiastic gusto with which Gallagher was currently fondling him. Large, calloused fingers tweaked one of his nipples, drawing a very embarrassing little sound out of him. He placed his own hands over Gallagher's, just to have something to hold onto.
Gallagher squeezed what little fat was there, cupping Sunday's pecs in his palms. "You like having your tits played with, huh?" He asked a little breathlessly, half-teasing but mostly just turned on. Before the Halovian could dignify that with a response, Gallagher pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, just below the juncture where his pierced wing met his skull.
That pulled a gasp from Sunday — he was so sensitive there, right where the feathers met skin, and he hadn't been expecting it. He felt Gallagher's mouth curl into a smile against him. "Ohh, feels good here?"
"Yes," Sunday answered honestly, the embarrassment overshadowed by how much he wanted the Bloodhound to keep doing that. His honesty was rewarded when he felt a hickey being sucked into that spot, which drew a reedy moan out of him.
His wing trembled as he felt a little scrape of teeth against the thin skin of his neck. Gallagher's mouth was so close to his jugular. The Harmony apparently had no effect on him, so Sunday was essentially powerless. He felt like a small animal situated precariously within a canine's open jaws — all he could do was trust that they wouldn't snap shut.
There shouldn't be any real danger, since they were in the Dreamscape. Sunday didn't really think Gallagher had any intention to harm him, either. But that didn't stop a surge of adrenaline from coursing through him, his heart racing rabbit-quick in his chest. "Gallagher," he managed. "Can I— ask you,"
The other man pulled away from his neck, allowing him to catch his breath. "Yeah?"
"Before — when I asked if you wanted me to tune you. Why didn't you tell me then that it wouldn't work?"
Gallagher huffed. "'Cuz I knew you'd try anyways and I wanted you to feel bad about it. Not very nice to poke around in a guy's brain against his wishes."
"I see." Sunday hesitated. "I... apologize for going against my word." Not I apologize for using the Harmony, because he decidedly wasn't sorry for that — it was how he interfaced with the world, for better or worse. A blessing he'd been born with that was as innate to him as his vision or hearing. Admonishing a Halovian for using their psychic abilities was like admonishing a fish for swimming.
"It's fine, I'm not mad," Gallagher said, rubbing his hands over Sunday's forearms. "Just wanted to teach you a lesson, or something."
"Hm." Sunday didn't particularly appreciate that — he felt a little patronized, in fact, and would probably have started an argument under different circumstances — but he was willing to let it slide in the interest of addressing the still-insistent throb between his legs, and the fact that his skin tingled where Gallagher touched it.
Seeming to read his mind (ironically enough), the Hound brought a hand to Sunday's front, fingers dipping just below the waistband of his pants and briefs. "Wanna take these off?"
There was something obscene about the feeling of his own bare thighs against Gallagher's clothed legs. It should've been unbearably humiliating to be the only one fully disrobed — it was, to some degree — but paradoxically, it was turning him on, too. Made him feel like an ornament, a plaything — just there to perch prettily on Gallagher's lap and be freely caressed at his whims. No need to perform or appease or think at all.
Even if Sunday could tune Gallagher, he clearly had no need to do so — he could feel the Bloodhound's affected breaths against his ear and his erection against his ass. He didn't seem nervous or uncomfortable. Sunday wasn't used to feeling so outwardly, unabashedly claimed like this without any Harmonic intervention — it made him feel naked on more levels than one.
The inability to micromanage should've been making him panic. There was definitely still some gnawing anxiety about not being able to control Gallagher's perception of him — but mostly, Sunday just thought this must be the horniest he'd ever felt in his life.
Gallagher's hand traveled lower, petting briefly over his belly and through his heather-gray curls before finally, finally pressing his fingers against his swollen clit, right where Sunday wanted them. He let out a shuddering breath. "Fuck, Gallagher."
He rubbed a few light circles against it, causing Sunday to squirm and unconsciously twist his head away, accidentally smacking the other man in the mouth with his wing in the process. He spread his thighs further, caging the Bloodhound's knees inside his own, and leaned back further against him.
Sunday felt the large fingers dip down to his twitching hole, just enough to gather some slick to drag back up to his clit for lubrication. He felt like a livewire, hypersensitive to the rough pads of Gallagher's fingertips parting his labia — the shamelessness of the wet sounds made his face heat up and his eyebrows scrunch together. He suppressed a deeply undignified noise that threatened to escape his throat.
He felt another kiss pressed to his neck and a gruff voice in his ear: "There y'go, that's it. Doing so good." Good, Sunday's feverish mind echoed as his cunt pulsed involuntarily at the praise.
"But—" Sunday's voice broke as Gallagher's now-wet fingers resumed their earlier task of teasing his clit. "I'm not— mh, even doing anything,"
"No need to do anything, gorgeous, just relax for me," Gallagher crooned, and Sunday certainly wasn't about to argue with that. He took another shaky breath, shifting his hips to rock against the fingers rubbing him.
Gallagher's free hand was still playing with his pec, grabbing the meager flesh there so that Sunday's stiff nipple pressed against the flat of his palm. Why that man was so fixated on his completely unremarkable chest was beyond him.
He couldn't muse on that for very long, though, because two fingers pinched his clit a little meanly, jolting him out of his thoughts. Gallagher's hand left his chest to hold his jaw, turning Sunday's face up towards his own for an awkwardly-angled kiss. He felt the Hound's calloused fingers skimming over his entrance.
Sunday moaned against his mouth as two of Gallagher's fingers sunk down to press into his hole, breaching it this time. He was given a moment to adjust before they curled upwards, already searching for the spongy give of his G-spot.
Gallagher managed to snake his other hand down to Sunday's lower belly, pressing directly above his pubic bone — trying to massage that spot from the outside, too. The dual stimulation was especially intense once the fingers inside him found their target.
He broke away from the kiss, panting something that sounded vaguely like yes, please, thank you, thank you, yes as Gallagher's fingers bullied that spot inside, his palm still providing some pressure against Sunday's needy clit as he ground his hips against it.
"Heh, so polite all of a sudden," Gallagher quipped, amused. He worked his wrist, driving his fingers dutifully over and over against Sunday's inner walls while his other hand pressed from the outside.
Sunday involuntarily pulled one of his legs closer to himself, overwhelmed by the sensation. His knee bent, causing the sole of his foot to press against Gallagher's clothed leg. He was glad he had the foresight to remove his shoes before this, some vague part of his brain thought hazily, so as not to dirty Gallagher's pants with the bottom of his loafer. A bit of a moot point, considering the amount of his fluids already on them — but he wasn't exactly in his right mind while being exuberantly fingerblasted.
The thought struck him that this room — which, when the Pavilion was open, hosted visitors from all echelons of the Family — was now empty and silent, save for the slick sounds of Gallagher's fingers pumping into his pussy and the stifled sounds drawn from his mouth as a result. It was debauched to do this at his place of work, even if it was also technically his home. He suddenly felt very exposed in a way that made his heart race, feeling the cool air of the room against his bare legs, his inner thighs, his overheated sex.
He twisted his hips, instinctively wanting to both get closer and further away from the intense feeling. His thighs started trembling as the coil in his abdomen wound tighter, pressure building in his core. He desperately canted his hips forward into Gallagher's hand, grasping at the orange fabric of the sofa behind them for leverage.
"Close," he gasped. "I'm—"
Sunday squeezed his eyes shut as he came, clenching uncontrollably around Gallagher's fingers as he rode out the waves of his orgasm. He clumsily rutted against the Bloodhound's hand to chase the fleeting pleasure for as long as he could.
He was vaguely aware of a warmth at his neck as Gallagher sucked a second hickey into his skin — neither would last, since they were in the Dreamscape, but the feeling of it was still deeply satisfying. He sighed, relaxed, as Gallagher pulled his slick fingers out with an egregiously wet squelch.
He closed his eyes and just laid back bonelessly. His entire lower abdomen felt pleasantly warm and tingly, his cunt still twitching with aftershocks.
Gallagher shifted around behind him, bringing a hand up to his own face and making a wet sound. "Hey, what'dya know. It's sweet."
That took a moment for Sunday's hazy mind to process. "Ugh. You're an animal," he said accusingly.
"Well, yeah, a Bloodhound," Gallagher said, and Sunday could hear the shit-eating grin in his voice. "I bet it's sweet from all those desserts you love so much. Wanna taste?"
"No, I do not."
"Eh, your loss."
Gallagher ghosted his fingers over Sunday's still-sensitive core, just petting lightly through his curls. It was so nice, Sunday thought, just relaxing post-orgasm in his lap like this. It was very rare for him to feel so pleasantly content.
"You really do love this, don't you?" Gallagher mused. "Wouldn't have thought."
"Why shouldn't I?" Sunday asked, a little defensively. "Xipe smiles upon harmonious acts of physical intimacy. If anything, THEIR will is probably for me to have more sex."
"Not because of your job or religion or whatever, I just mean, like — I dunno. Your personality?"
Sunday jabbed an elbow behind him, relishing in the oof that followed. "I have a perfectly fine personality."
"Yikes, okay," Gallagher laughed, rubbing his side. "Don't beat me up, Mr. Personality."
The knowledge this little tryst was a transient thing — an inadvisable hookup between acquaintances at best — suddenly hit Sunday like a train. They were doing this to meet a physical need, and that was it — that was what Sunday had wanted in the first place. So why did he suddenly have such a miserable ache between his ribs?
He twisted around and buried his face into the crook of Gallagher's neck, suddenly overcome with... well, something he couldn't exactly place. He could usually tell when he was about to cry, because that was just his body's typical response to feeling overwhelmed with any emotion at all. A pitiful habit for a grown man, he thought, and one he typically managed to repress — but this time the tears started before he even had a chance to process what was happening.
"Aw, birdie," Gallagher wrapped an arm around his middle. Sunday could hear the frown in his voice. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"
The pet name felt like a punch directly to the solar plexus. He wished Gallagher had just mocked him or said something antagonizing instead — that would've been easier.
What was he supposed to say? I've been touch-starved to the point of physical pain, and I'm not ready to go back? I'm terrified to be alone? I don't want to be the only one left behind?
He wasn't someone who got to be sweetheart. He was Ena's perfect vessel; an unblemished blank slate on which THEY would manifest THEIR divinity for the sake of paradise for all mankind.
But he wasn't unblemished — he was rotten to his core, because a perfect vessel wouldn't doubt its God, or dread the moment it would fulfill its glorious purpose. It would accept its fate magnanimously, lamb-soft in its beautiful sacrifice. It didn't get to be sweetheart, nor did it wish to be.
Surely, when the time came, Ena would sense these impurities in THEIR vessel, and THEY would reject him — dooming humanity to an existence marred by strife and misery, all because he wasn't strong enough to keep his faith, wasn't disciplined enough, or brave enough — THEY would know, everyone would know, and it would be all his fault—
"Hey, hey," Gallagher's gruff voice was as gentle as he'd ever heard it. He felt a hand stroking through his hair. "Sunday, you're panicking. You're okay. Look at me."
The unexpected kindness just made him want to cry more. He ignored Gallagher's request to look at him, opting to just keep his face hidden. Pathetic. Like a child, he thought.
Gallagher reached for his hand, guiding it to rest against his broad chest. "Try to match my breathing, okay?"
He felt the Bloodhound taking slow, exaggerated breaths beneath his hand. The patient effort Gallagher was putting in to calm him down made his heart wrench. He shakily forced himself to try to breathe at the same rate as the other man — mostly just because he wanted this mortifying episode to be over.
"Just like that." Gallagher continued running fingers through his hair, grounding him as he breathed in and out forcefully — trying to override the urge to keep hyperventilating. "You're okay, birdie. I gotcha."
"I—" Sunday choked out between gasps, after what could have been seconds or minutes or hours of this — he couldn't tell. His voice sounded so humiliatingly thick and nasally. "I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It happens," Gallagher assured him. "Did I do something to freak you out?"
"No— no, nothing you did, just—" Sunday paused, unsure of what to say. "Stressed about work."
"Seems like a lot of stress over a job," The Hound suggested hesitantly — like he wanted to say more. "Why do this to yourself, y'know? Ever considered a change of career?"
"I can't, I..." Sunday trailed off. He didn't even know how to begin to express how much that was not an option.
"Why not? You'd make a great podcaster or something. Nice voice and very opinionated."
The absurdity of the statement got a shocked bark of a laugh out of Sunday. That was probably why Gallagher had said it. His chest ached. What had he done to deserve this kindness from him?
"I'll be fine. I just lost my composure for a moment. A mood shift from the endorphins, maybe." Sunday took a steadying breath. He didn't have to think about any of that now. He could bury it down until he was alone, where at least no one would see him fall apart.
"You want me to stay like this?"
Sunday made an affirmative noise, shifting onto his side a little more. He'd already humiliated himself — so why not indulge further? If the Bloodhound ever wanted to use any of this against him, he already had all the material he needed. Cuddling more wouldn't hurt anything.
They stayed like that for a while in silence. Gallagher's hand still periodically stroked through his hair with a gentleness Sunday would never have expected from him. He'd always thought of Gallagher as stereotypically rough, hired muscle — surly and irreverent. But he certainly seemed reverent now, the way he held Sunday like he was something fragile.
"I'd help you, you know." Gallagher spoke after some time.
"Mm?" Sunday hummed, a little stuporous from the intoxicating feeling of being touched.
"If you wanted to give it up. All this Family stuff. I could take you somewhere out of their reach."
Sunday paused. Turned the words over in his mind. "Even if I had the desire to abandon the Family — which I do not — our network is more extensive than you can imagine. There is no such place," he mumbled. "Besides, my work is... it's everything to me."
What Gallagher was saying was treasonous, definitely grounds for immediate termination of his employment. But talking about it out loud — just the idea of being anything but completely satisfied with his station — felt like a crushing weight lifted off his ribs, letting him breathe a little easier. That wasn't something he ever talked about. It wasn't something he even allowed himself to think about.
He wondered what Gallagher meant by out of their reach. Surely he understood the extent of the Family's influence was not something to be underestimated. Maybe that had something to do with why he never saw Gallagher outside of the Dreamscape — maybe he was out of reach. Another red flag for the pile. It was more like a mountain, at this point.
"Okay," Gallagher said simply, not pressing the issue any further.
After the panic had passed and the mood had become comfortable again, there was another issue to contend with: He was still horny, and Gallagher was still hard.
"Hey," Sunday finally worked up the nerve to say, rubbing a hand over the other man's chest. Thumbing a bit shyly over a nipple. "Can we... keep going?"
Gallagher raised his eyebrows. "Sure, if you still want to."
"I do. Besides, you're still..." He trailed off, suddenly feeling stupid for some reason.
Gallagher, mercifully, did not make fun of him. "Eh, I can always take care of it on my own. I'm pretty good at that."
"I'm sure you are," Sunday deadpanned. He was extremely grateful that the tense atmosphere had dissipated into something more familiar. Relieved to somehow not have killed the mood completely.
"Uh huh. Bold words from the guy who propositioned me in the first place," Gallagher pointed out with a smirk.
Sunday decided he had no choice but to kiss that smirk off his smug face. He shifted so that he was back on top of Gallagher, facing him again, and pressed their mouths together — much more boldly this time. Immediately licking at the Hound's lower lip and into his mouth, running his tongue over those sharp canines. He tangled his hands in Gallagher's hair, pulling him closer.
Gallagher finally broke away, panting. Just like a dog, Sunday thought passively. "How do you want it?"
The question made Sunday flush down to his neck. He was caught off-guard. How did he want it?
"Can I lay on my back?" He asked, after he'd collected himself. "With you... um, over me?"
He watched Gallagher's pupils dilate in real-time. "Yeah, we can do that."
This was exactly what he'd wanted — wrists pinned together above his head by a firm hand, chest-to-chest, Gallagher's warm, wet mouth nipping and sucking at the delicate skin where his wing attached. Pounding into him so every thrust had his heavy balls smacking against Sunday's ass.
He dug a heel into the muscle of Gallagher's back to spur him on. Sunday loved feeling claimed like this — to just lay back and be ravished, overwhelmed, fucked into submission. Pinned — caught — unable to think about anything else but the cock pumping into him and the teeth at his throat. Taking it single-mindedly, until there was nothing else in the world for him to think about. Only the way his walls clenched so, so nicely around Gallagher while his insides were summarily rearranged.
He wanted to ask something, he thought foggily. No, that wasn't it — he wanted Gallagher to say something. He couldn't even use the Harmony to suggest it to him either; he had to actually speak out loud to express what he wanted. Aeons, Sunday's life was so hard.
"Gh, hah— allagher," he panted, sounding considerably more wrecked than he'd expected. "I'm— am I... good...?"
"Fuck yeah, so good," Gallagher murmured against his jaw. "So good for me, angel, you're perfect."
The man might as well have injected dopamine directly into Sunday's brain. Good, perfect — he felt his cunt twitch at the words. It was so nice to be good — so wonderful that Gallagher was pleased with him. So easy to be good like this, soft and pliant — just emptying his head, taking pleasure and being praised for it.
Thankfully, Gallagher seemed to have gotten the hint. "You take it so nice, birdie — look so hot all messed up and fucked-out," he continued, peppering his neck and face with wet kisses in between thoughts. "Anyone who'd pass up this view must be out of their goddamn mind."
Sunday shuddered, his wings fluffing up at the potent cocktail of arousal and embarrassment. That's right, Gallagher was talking to him — Sunday — not an apparition of someone else. His moan was muffled as the Bloodhound gave him a particularly sloppy kiss on the mouth, all slick tongue.
Sunday experimentally opened and closed his fingers, tensed his biceps — found that he really couldn't move his arms at all — and the thrill of it was sending jolts of heat straight between his legs. Gallagher was a saint to honor his perverted request like this.
"Fuck, look at you. So sweet like this. Nice 'n docile when you're wrapped around some cock, huh?"
"Please—" Sunday whined insistently, not fully sure what he was even begging for. He arched upwards against Gallagher, writhing. "Don't stop, I— hah, mn— it's—"
"Yeah? Gonna cum?"
"Mm— maybe—" Sunday replied — which struck him as kind of asinine, but it was the only thing his sex-addled brain provided as a response. Perhaps he'd been fucked a little stupid.
His thighs trembled as the pressure building in his core approached the breaking point. One particularly sharp snap of Gallagher's hips against him — something near-unintelligible mumbled in his ear about how good he was — that was all it took for the dam to burst. He squeezed his eyes shut. Bursts of light bloomed behind his eyelids as the Bloodhound fucked him through his peak. His cunt pulsed, clenching and unclenching wildly — he heard Gallagher grit his teeth in his ear, his pace stuttering.
Sunday felt the cock twitch inside him, flooding him with warmth. He sighed shakily, relishing in it. He'd always loved this feeling. Something about it just felt very complete. The Dreamscape was a miracle for this alone — just the freedom to do this without any risk.
Gallagher, of course, noticed. Even in his own post-orgasm haze, he smirked down at the blissed-out Halovian beneath him. "Oh...? You like creampies?"
"Mm." Sunday didn't even have it in him to be scandalized at the crass terminology. He felt too relaxed. Like the stress had been fucked out of him completely.
"Just full of surprises, huh," Gallager said, pulling his softening cock out of the Halovian as he let go of his wrists. Sunday's arms were stiff when he tried to move them. He brought a wrist to his face to examine it — as he thought, it had already started to bruise. It wouldn't stay that way for more than a few moments, since they were in the Dreamscape, but he found himself almost wishing that it would.
Gallagher sat back on his haunches, staring between Sunday's legs. He nudged one of his knees, coaxing Sunday to open them further, and used his thumbs to spread his swollen, overheated pussy — watching the cum ooze out of him.
Sunday brought his thighs together, embarrassed. He used a wing to cover his flushed cheeks. "Don't look at it so closely, you dog."
"Aw, but it's so cute," Gallagher complained. Sunday resisted the urge to kick him and chose instead to sit up a little.
Gallagher laid down on his front, resting his head sideways in Sunday's lap. He let an arm dangle off the side of the couch. Sunday found himself overcome with the odd impulse to stroke his hair, for whatever reason — so he did. The Hound made an appreciative sound.
They relaxed like that in comfortable silence for a long while, bathed in the glow of the Bloodhound insignia above them. The weight of Gallagher's head felt grounding against his thighs.
Any trace of residual sweat (and... other fluids) had been taken care of by the convenience of the Dreamscape, but even so — eventually, Sunday did realize he'd had enough of being naked. The thought of putting his suit back on was miserable, so he concentrated enough to use his meager Dreamweaving skills to materialize them some more comfortable clothing.
"Oh, thanks," Gallagher said, sitting up to pull on the soft sweatpants and t-shirt. "I feel like I never see you do that."
"I'm not very good at it," Sunday stated simply. Dreamweaving was too nebulous for him — trying to manifest something recognizable from vague, indistinct memoria was challenging.
"Well, you got my size right, so no complaints here," Gallagher mused with a shrug. Sunday put on his own loungewear before sitting back down next to him.
"We shouldn't do this again," Sunday said abruptly, looking down at his legs. He missed when Gallagher's head was resting on them.
"Why not?"
Take your pick from a thousand reasons. "Workplace conflict of interest," he finally settled on.
"Come on," Gallagher snorted, giving him an incredulous look. He stood up to stretch. Sunday swore he heard the man's back pop. "Give me a call whenever you're in the mood, angel. I'll eat you out next time."
Sunday flustered, wings fluffing up involuntarily. "You'll— I'm sorry?"
"And wake up for a bit, don't do any more work tonight," Gallagher continued like he hadn't just said something completely outrageous. He nonchalantly picked up the discarded pieces of his clothing that were strewn about. "Favor to me, okay?"
The Bloodhound leaned down to meet his eyes, and for a moment Sunday wondered if Gallagher was going to kiss him — but he just fixed him with an inscrutable look before standing up straight again. "I'll see you around, birdie."
Sunday just sat on the couch as the other man left, and for a long time after. Eventually, he got up and silently padded to his office. He pulled out a folder stuffed full of documents and permits that needed his attention. He ran a hand over his wrist, which was completely unblemished as though nothing had happened at all.
He had no intention of waking up.